Postcards
by AlphaKantSpell
Summary: Post Cap2: Steve and Sam travel together searching for Bucky. Antsy about what he'll say when they eventually find him, Steve's been writing speeches on postcards. They start out simple enough but when is writing confessionals to your best friend turned Hydra Killing-Machine ever simple?
1. Palm Fronds

It's in a Texan desert that Steve gets the idea. He's staring at a postcard. It's of a beach, water an impossible shade of blue with gold sand and a palm tree that's more crooked than the higher-ups in SHIELD to bend into the picture. It's fake. The image looks real but Steve knows it's fake; an artist's depiction of beauty. Steve's been around enough things that aren't real to know the difference.

Sam's buying snacks. Every stop he gets the same thing, water and mint chewing gum. This time he adds a bag of jerky to the loot. They'll have to stop for an actual meal soon. Sam only buys jerky when he's having trouble thinking past a hunger induced head-ache. They don't stop often. Two nights ago was the last time, when they'd got a lead that sent them way out into the boonies. Sam's face has a painful red hue to it and Steve knows if it weren't for the super serum he'd be red as a rodeo-clown's lips. They haven't stopped searching for weeks. Whenever Steve even hints that Sam is free to leave any time he wants, the man gets this glare that matches Natasha's on one of her worst days.

Steve's glad he hasn't left. It's nice to have . . . a brother again.

He stares at the postcard in his hands. It's cardstock, one side glossy for the picture and the other thick enough that he can feel the texture when he runs a thumb over it. The bottom edge is worn from being shoved back into the holder of identical postcards. It's been here a while. People pick it up and then buy one behind it if they buy a postcard at all. There's a big scratch running down the left side of it, starting from the middle going down to the corner so that if Steve were to bend it along the line almost half the image would be destroyed.

Steve things of Bucky. His arm. How did he lose his arm? Had it hurt? Did he feel phantom pains? What about the metal attached to him? Does it go to his bone? Steve cant' stop thinking about every blow he blocked, if the hits ran along the metal into Bucky's arm. How much pain was he in? Did it hurt to punch? Did he feel anything at all?

Sam gives him a look when Steve brings the postcard to the cashier but was too tired to comment further. The cashier grins at him, big yellow teeth showing like banana-flavored hard candy. Then they're out the door and Sam checks on their bikes, making sure everything is in order. Long shadows from the red sunset obscures most of the image in Steve's hands. He flips the card over to the lined side for writing. There isn't much room. A person can't say much of anything on a card like this. No long speech, no in depth analysis. It can't record sound or video. It isn't a data file or a gateway to a larger server filled with information. It has four lines and even if Steve writes in as small a font as he can, the paragraph it can produce would be child-sized.

"You ready? Or do you wanna head back to Florida?" Sam asks when the bikes are ready. He'd drunk a fourth of his water and chews on his jerky. He's himself enough again to tease. Steve's trying to get there.

"How do you feel about Mexico?"

Sam's brows rise. "Gonna need passports for that. You sure you don't want to search the rest of America first?"

"Mexico is in America," Steve counters and Sam rolls his eyes.

"You know what I mean." Steve shrugs and puts the postcard into his pack. He takes the time to make sure it doesn't get any more damaged than it already is.

"I doubt Bucky will keep to US soil."

Sam nods as Steve mounts his bike. Revving his own, Sam flies out of the gas station with Steve following, mind focused on Bucky as always. Their trail (which wasn't much to begin with) is drying up. He just hopes he they find Bucky before someone else. Steve doesn't want to read about his death in a file. He can't let that happen, not when he still has so much to say. It's more than enough to fill a postcard

. . . .

Six hours later Sam pulls into a motel and Steve follows, just like he does when Sam pulls into gas stations. The man's tired. He's been pushing hard. They both have but it wears on Sam differently than it does for Steve. Sometimes Steve can't sleep at all, blood buzzing as loud as his thoughts. If he worries too much he can't even sit for long before needing to run and punch like a cornered mustang snarling at the bit. Tonight he's almost as weary as Sam. He pays for the room (two beds, no breakfast in the morning, they'll be out of here in four hours) with a card given to them by Stark. They'd burnt through their own savings (Steve's first, on his insistence) at a rate the billionaire couldn't stand. Tony all but shoved the card into Steve's hands when he met them with a "surprise" visit back in Rohde Island.

"_Stop frowning like that, it's just money_," he insisted. "_Look, I owe you one, okay? Just take the money. It's hardly anything and I know you'll be frugal as a grandpa with it anyway. I know this guy's important to you –_ " Tony stopped. Steve wondered if the man was embarrassed or if he could see just how important Bucky is to him. "_Just find him quick and bring 'em home. Kay?_"

Neither man says much of anything as they get ready for bed, each taking shifts with the bathroom to wash up and organize their things. They're both very neat. Steve smiles, thinking of Tony and his messes, of Bruce and his anxious attempt to get out of way but drawing all the more attention because of it. He thinks of Natasha and her smirks, of Clint and Thor with their booming voices and bravado. He misses them. He misses them but it's nothing like the gaping pain from being separated from Bucky. Part of him is missing. He hadn't realized quite how much with everything new that's been happening but seeing him again, letting Bucky slip through his fingers, it was like getting a lung ripped out. Steve still hasn't caught his breath.

Steve takes out the postcard and runs his thumb over it. Sam's in the shower, sound of the water drowning the eager couple next door and the dog barking down the street. He finds a pen and begins to write.

_Bucky, you don't know me anymore but_

This is terrible. Steve crosses out the line so many times the marks bite through to the other side, streaking across the palm fronds. He chews the pen and stares at the postcard in dismay.

"Come on, Steve. You've fought tougher fights than this."

He really hasn't.

_My name is Steve Rodgers._

He resists the urge to cross this out too if only to preserve what little space he has left on the post card.

_We used to be neighbors. We grew up together._

He thinks about the time he and Bucky rescued an old pit-bull from kids who were throwing rocks at her. Steve went at the kids with his fists flying, wheezing louder than his scream because another asthma attack was moments away. Bucky was at his back, punching with as much purpose as Steve was. At the end of it they had matching shiners and the old dog licked their cuts in turn. She panted as Steve did, tongue lulling out behind broken teeth and the gratitude they got from her was something that transcended speech. Steve looked at Bucky and they grinned at each other.

_We even fought together. We're brothers, Bucky._

There's half a line left and not nearly enough space in a novel to fill all the things Steve wants to say to him. The shower shuts off and Sam will be out in a minute, telling Steve it's his turn and he better take 'the damn shower' because Super Soldiers aren't just stronger than regular soldier, they sweat more too. Steve doesn't want to lose this moment. He doesn't want to lose the only connection to Bucky he has, even if it's just through a stupid, damaged postcard of a beach that isn't even real.

_I don't expect you to remember me._

There isn't any more room. Panicking, Steve starts writing along the margins, scrawl tiny and crooked and messy as his nerves.

_But I remember you_


	2. By Firelight

Thank you all for the outpouring of encouragement. At this point there's a plot in the works and I'm pretending I know how the real world works and what Bucky is actually like. /nervous laughter/

* * *

By Firelight

The next card is from a taco shop on a pier in San Diego, California. Sam is wolfing down two avocado tacos with a gusto he hasn't seen from him since their morning runs. Bright, clear sunlight has chased away almost every shadow and Steve has to use his hand to shade his eyes to see the postcard. It's of the pier, waves swelling at the base like ruffles of a skirt. A flock of pelicans are flying overhead and a man in the process of reeling in stingray so the line is pulled taunt and the pole bends. The taco shop is front and center, complete with the owner/chef grinning at the photographer with two thumbs up. Across the top in bold, yellow font is "Taco On the Beach".

Sam snorts when he sees Steve buy it. It's only slightly sillier than the last postcard but at least this beach is real.

"You making a collection?" Sam asks.

"For my scrapbook," he returns and Sam laughs. Half of Sam's taco has fallen on his wrapper. He's meticulous so Steve isn't surprised when he starts picking at the bits of lattice and corn when his tacos are done. Steve focuses on his own to hide his smile.

"So, what's the plan. Where're we going after this?"

Steve swallows his bite quick to reply. "At this point he either went north or south." Glancing around the pier again, he doesn't notice anyone suspicious. "He's probably more familiar with the north but my gut says he went south. Buck hates the cold. Besides, he always said he wanted to see the Amazon. If he's remembering who he is he might be there."

Finished, Sam crumples up his wrapper. "Right, so we're looking for a Soviet weapon in a rainforest."

Steve frowns at that. He hates when Sam calls him that, though it's true. He isn't sure how much of Bucky is still left in the Winter Soldier.

"I read that a lot of Nazi fled to South America after the war. My bet is that Hydra's there too. Bucky might be down there driving out cells."

"_Probably_, _might_ _be_," Sam quotes at him. "We got any more intel than that?"

"Look, I know it's a stretch but it's all I've got okay?"

Steve hadn't realized how heated their tone got until Sam raises his hands to him, palms up, then rolls his eyes and walks down the pier. They've been in each other's space for weeks. After the adrenaline from the SHIELD-HYDRA attack wore off, they were bound to get to this point. The motorcycles are too slow for this kind of manhunt but they need the mobility of them. Getting a plane might be best to fly directly to Argentina but it's unlikely Bucky would take that kind of mass transport when his face is 30th on the Most Wanted List. Last week it was 28th, the week before that 15th. Life moves fast in the world of terror.

The truth is Steve doesn't have a clue what to do. He wishes he had had access to that Heimdall Thor speaks so fondly of.

Sourly chewing the last bit of his taco, Steve riffles through his pack for his Starkphone. He can't believe it's taken him this long to ask the man but Steve's aware his stubborn pride is an issue. He used to rely on Bucky to keep him on target.

"_Steve! I was just talking about you. Were your ears burning_?" Tony cheers when he answers the call, three rings in. Well, his ears are burning now.

"I've got a favor."

"_Favor favor favor, it's always favors with you_."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know you've done a lot for me recently," he grinds out. "But I'm asking for just one more."

"_Of course. Shoot, Cap_."

"I think Bucky is in South America, or going there, maybe to Argentina. Is there any way you can check security footage for him? I doubt it legal and I know it's a big thing and it'll take a while to get through all that information but – "

"_Hang on, way ahead of you. I've already got an algorithm going through low level security and I'm hacking higher ups_." Tony doesn't speak for a moment, which is something miraculous of itself as he types furiously. "_There's a few dark patches but we'll half most of the US and half of Mexico in a few minutes. I'll keep you posted when I get past Panama and into South America. Shouldn't be more than a few hours. If he walks in front so much as an ATM we'll have him._"

"Really?" It's that easy? Steve watches the gentle waves at the bottom of the pier, white suds brushing against barnacles and purple sea stars. It looks like an easy life down there in the surf but Steve knows those barnacles are pummeled by wave and picked at by predators. Nothing is ever that easy.

"Is there any chatter of someone else finding him? If it's that easy for you, surely there's someone else out there ahead of us."

Steve can feel Tony's glare over the phone. "_The short answer is yes. So if we see him you've got to move quick. Keep searching by foot and if I see anything I'll swing by and pick you up._"

Steve nods, then answers in affirmative when he realizes he's not face-chatting with Iron Man. He wonders how Tony will 'pick him up' without his Iron Man suits. The man must still have planes though, so he doesn't wonder too long. He can't stop worrying, however. It's staining him. He can feel it in his chest and in the way his arms burn. He'll have to run before they start riding again.

"Thanks, Tony. I appreciate all your help."

"_No prob. And Cap?_" He waits a pause. "_Don't call me Shirley_."

. . .

Somehow Steve thought writing the second postcard would be easier. It's worse.

Sam's working on getting them a truck big enough for their bikes but isn't something that's going to attract a lot of attention. The used car dealership they're at is filled with cars like that, eyesores that people turn away from. Their salesman was all too eager to see them and while Steve has spotted one or two other customers, it isn't exactly a thriving place. Spindly ash brown weeds are growing out of cracks in the discolored blacktop. Steve leans against a car and shades his eyes again. The sun-heated metal sinks into a sore spot on his back. Steve leans onto it like a sunbathing cat. Sam offered to let Steve tag along for the paperwork part of the deal but he felt more useful guarding what little possessions they have. He's already spotted more than one of the few customers eye their bikes.

The postcard Steve bought feels heavy in his pack (which is ridiculous because it weighs all of a couple ounces). He takes it out and frowns. At this point Steve can't even pretend it makes him think of Bucky to justify it. There's some romantic quality to the struggle the fisherman is going through but that's stretching it. It's a picture of a pier with a man selling tacos.

Steve repositions how he's leaning on the car. The metal's starting to sting. Feeling foolish, he twists about for a pen from his pack and clicks it three times, hoping that it'll give him extra time to think of something good to say. It doesn't.

_Tried tacos today._

He starts then scoffs. 70 plus years, two gravestones, three aborted social-apocalypses (that he's aware of) and Steve wants to talk about tacos. Bucky would laugh. At least the Bucky he used to know would laugh. Steve has no idea if this new Bucky even knows how to laugh. Whatever humor the man has must be dark and morbid like most of Natasha's were before he got to know her better. It took almost a full year of working together for her to start telling him jokes that didn't involve bloodshed of one kind or another.

_California tacos are sweeter than the ones in New York._

Steve blames the excess amount of avocado. It's on everything in California. Just yesterday he'd seen a woman order an avocado pizza made with that as the primary ingredient. Back when he and Bucky were dirt poor out of school they'd sometimes make a pizza out of spinach, canned tomato sauce, and whatever bread they could find, then toast it over a small fire. Bucky always complained that he wanted something sweater on it. He daydreamed of fresh tomatoes and rolled his eyes at Steve when he suggested a pinch of sugar if he wanted something sweet so bad.

_I think you'd like them._

They'd laughed about it when they had enough money to buy real pizza. Then Steve would toss a pinch of sugar on his plate when Bucky wasn't looking. Even after all these years he never forgot the way their tiny excuse for a fire highlighted Bucky's jaw. It cast shadows over him, flickering images that looked beautiful one way and horrid another. Bathed in the glow of the fire, Steve could see worry etched into Bucky's face like the lines on an ancient Seer. For the most part Steve was the one who worried and Bucky was the eternal optimist. It was in these rare moments that Steve saw past the façade, saw the man's fears of the world around them collapsing in a second Great War.

_We'll have to come by here when this is over. _

There isn't any room for the last note Steve wants to make, something about bonfires along the beach but the statement feels too silly now anyway. Reading back over the postcard, Steve's tempted to tear it apart. He'd written nothing. Meaningless words, half promises, and worthless sentences.

But when he reads over them again he thinks of Bucky, of the face he made when he bit into the pizza Steve sabotaged, the smile he'd give when he realized Steve saw his mask slip in the fire, and the joy that had surged through him when he'd found Bucky in Redskull's lab.

It a few minutes the postcard changed from a novel way to waste three dollars to a precious totem filled with memories that Steve will think of each time he looks at it. He's horrified that a piece of paper has so much control over him, that just holding it makes his hands tremble and his mind agonize about how to keep it safe. Suddenly he understands Coulson's obsession with collecting cards.

He carefully puts it back into his pack, nestled against the first card and Steve feels like he's snuck a dirty magazine. When Sam leaves the building with keys in hand, he flushes with embarrassment and hopes it looks like a sunburn.


	3. Cold

Is this when I say I've never written a story this long in present tense? Or traveled outside of the US?

Thanks to everyone who's commented and followed this story! Your messages have been a delight!

* * *

Cold

Sam laughs when he brings it up.

"Something tells me you were as bad SHIELD agent."

Steve doesn't know if he's supposed to be offended or glad.

It's hot and he's thankful their truck doesn't have a leather interior. The back of his shirt is soaked a saturated towel. The carpeted interior is scratchy as a sore throat and he knows it'll be rank and a few hours. Sam has his window rolled down and he's gliding his hand over the air.

There's no telling if he'll ever be able to fly again.

Steve wipes a hand over his forehead to get the sweat out of his eyes. He makes a note to ask Tony to look into making the man a new set of wings. After everything he's done, Sam deserves it.

"We should get off the highway," he says after a few more hours.

"It'll be dark soon," Sam argues. "We should keep on until we get to the next city. I don't want to be out in the desert on a dirt road in the dark."

It's a perfectly logical explanation but Steve can't shake the sense that it's wrong. After everything that's happened in his life, Steve knows to follow his gut.

"If Bucky is here he won't be on the highway. He'll be out in a small town. Maybe a farm." It'd explain why he hasn't showed up on any footage yet.

"Right. The Winter Soldier is playing farm boy."

Steve imagines it for a moment, Bucky in his black suit and metal arm hitching rides on carts into the market or tilling corn fields. No, he supposes that wouldn't be the man's first option, even driven into hiding.

"He won't be on the highway," he says instead. "Come on, let's take the next exit and drive until we come across a town. It'll be an adventure."

Sam leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. "Last time I went on an 'adventure' I ended up a fugitive of the United States." Steve shrugs. He had him there.

"Well, at least you got a road trip out of it."

"Yeah. I don't know what I'd do with my life if I hadn't been able to see all these mountains and cactus." He gestures out the darkening window and shoots Steve a smile.

He laughs and knows this is the right choice. They've been cooped up in the truck long enough and after days riding motorcycles across the US, the lack of personal freedom is stiffening. Their truck isn't exactly spacious.

When the sun sets fully little lights dot the landscape in clusters at the base of hills, tiny towns nestled in valleys. Their road isn't dirt but it is choppy, bouncing them over potholes and uneven terrain. As they come close to the town a late night soccer game is underway and Steve smiles. After they check the bar that's the first stop he wants to make.

Any trace of cabin fever or stiff exhaustion is gone from Sam as Steve drives through the town. They're scoping out the place, both of their military training honing in on suspicious buildings, exits, population density, and the overall feel of the town. They're not far from the Pacific coast, close enough for the marine layer to creep in on them at night but not close enough to see the ocean. On their second run through the town, Sam points him to a bar that looks decent enough.

Neither of them is drinking, Steve having no reason to and Sam sober going on half a decade. Bars are, however, good places to learn about the gossip of the town and try to find any rumors on the Winter Soldier. The SHIELD event is still pretty recent, though not many know about Bucky. Even less people seem to know what actually took place that day, and that number got smaller as false information accumulated online and on the news.

Essentially Steve and Sam are searching for a needle in a haystack they couldn't find and almost no one knew existed.

"Time to get to work," Sam says as Steve parks the car. Steve checks their gear to make sure everything is locked tight as Sam searches around for any sign or threat. While there are a few curious stares there isn't anything malicious.

"You good?"

"All good," Steve replies and they enter the bar.

Weeks of working together has them in perfect synch. Sam looks right, Steve left, searching for anything of note. The bar is pretty crowded, noisy chatter muting a small tv that's playing a championship game. As they walk through, patrons glance their way but most return to the game. As Sam takes a seat, Steve's aware of the stares at the back of his neck.

He can't blame them. Steve would be staring too. He can't sense any malice in them so he focuses on the conversation in front of him.

"_We're looking for someone_," Sam says in Spanish to the bartender. Steve grimaces. While Sam's Arabic is flawless his Spanish is terrible. It is, however, the main language of most of the countries they might go through while searching for Bucky. It's important that Sam's language improves so he can not only communicate away from Steve but pick up the subtleties in hints that may lead them to Bucky. He just wishes the learning experience didn't have to be so painful.

"_I sell drinks, not whores_," the man spits back. "_So buy a drink or get out_." He goes back to watching the game across the room and Sam glances back to Steve with a clear 'help me' expression. Steve clears his throat and walks forward.

"_We're looking for this man_," he says, pulling a picture of Bucky from his pocket. It's a photo taken during their fight on the freeway. It's cell-phone footage but it's clear, Bucky's rage just as white-hot in the photo as it was in life. He has several pictures of the man fighting them, one of him hopping over a car, and a single picture where both his masks were cast off. Bucky's brows are pulled tight in the picture. It's hard to see his face with the matting of hair but Steve knows his lips are working around the sentence, 'Who the hell is Bucky?'

The bartender glances once then away. He's never seen Bucky before. They've been doing this long enough that Steve knows what the instantaneous recognition of the Winter Soldier looks like.

"_Have any other Americans passed through here_?" he asks anyway. "_Any men like this_?"

"_No_." They aren't getting any more response from the man while the game is on and he has paying customers. This is a dead end. Sam's already standing and heading back out. Steve tucks the photos away and follows him. Almost no one is watching them now. He tries to read the crowd on his way out but no one is peeking at him, trying to get his attention because they know something more than they're telling. It's the same response they've gotten everywhere. No one knows where the Winter Soldier is.

"Wanna hit the road or look for a motel?" Sam asks as soon as Steve walks to their truck.

"Let's check out that game we saw coming in, then the road." Steve doubts there are motels in this town. Even if there are, they need to keep moving. The truck will last them as a home for a while yet.

The soccer game is everything Steve hoped it would be, loud with the sound of laughter and competition. It's hard to make sense of the teams at first because it seems to be a free-for-all with kids varying in age from very young to 20-somethings. There's a lot of kids. They're all screaming and running, racing through the dirt field and around rocks for the ball. One girl is leading the pack, hair wild and everywhere as she runs. Steve can't help but root for her – especially since she's about a foot smaller than the other kids her age.

It looks like fun and Steve is happy to hang back with the crowd watching the game. He thinks about all the ball games he and Bucky had in the streets as kids and smiles. Sam has a similar expression and Steve wonders who he's thinking of while watching the children play.

"_Hey! You're in my way_!" squeaks a small voice behind him. Steve turns around and sees a mouse of a girl. She's wearing a dress that used to be pink at one point, doesn't have shoes, and her hair is in a messy braid that's coming loose. The most distinct thing about her, however, is the wasp-like glare she's got. Sam's watching her too and he's grinning.

"Kids on the base were a lot like that during a game," he says to Steve then turns to the girl. "_Sorry_."

As they move aside the girl perks up immediately. She's got a big sketchpad in her hands and a pencil that's on its last three inches. Steve watches as she starts to draw the scene in front of her. While crude, Steve can see the potential she's got. Her figures are better than his were at her age. He and Sam share a glance and Steve sits down near her.

"_That's a nice picture_," he tells her. She sniffs at him.

"_I'm the best artist here_," she replies without pause. "_I'm moving to the city when I'm older. Esperanza – my best friend – we're going to live together. She's going to own a museum and I'm going to put art in it_."

Steve laughs because listening to her reminds him of when he and Buck first met. Too tired to play with the other boys because of his asthma, Steve drew pictures on his stoop. He studied how they moved, just like this girl was watching the soccer game, and drew as many pictures as he could. When their baseball was hit out of bounds and into the alley by Steve's house, Bucky was the one to retrieve it.

"Are you a creep or something?" Bucky asked when he passed Steve.

"No," Steve shot back, embarrassment hot in his voice.

"Then why are you gawkin' at us? Come down and play. It's better than sitting all day."

_ I can't_, Steve wanted to say. He'd have another attack. Steve had already been to the doctor once this week and he didn't want to go back again. Steve hated doctors. Doctors made his parents fight.

Bucky's eyebrows rose at him then he turned away, ball in hand. Steve threw his sketches aside and the pencil rolled down the stairs as he ran. He wanted to play and nothing was telling him otherwise.

"Your art's pretty good," Bucky told him later while Steve tried to calm his struggling lungs. He was lying in the shadow of a building, hair haloed around him on the dirty concrete. Bucky sat close by, propped against the wall and shifting through Steve's sketch pad.

"I'm okay," Steve replied.

"Better than okay," Bucky argued. He had dirt smudged across his nose. During the game had gotten a bruised chin from one of the other kids elbowing him at third-base. Steve had a bloodied lip from getting into a fistfight with Bucky's attacker.

"You can be a famous artist when you grow up."

"I don't know about that."

"I do."

Bucky closed the sketchpad and stared up. Steve glanced the way he was but didn't see anything but the grime covered buildings in front of him.

"You sell yourself short, Rodgers. You'll be an artist and I'll sell your paintings because you'd just get swindled out of it otherwise."

". . . So are we friends then?" Steve asked after a moment. Bucky turned to him with a smile that was brighter than the summer sun and Steve couldn't breathe anymore but he didn't think it was because of his asthma.

"_She's over there_," the mousy girl tells Steve with blooming delight. She points to one of the girls in the game, the one in the lead of the pack kicking the soccer ball. "_That's Esperanza_."

Steve knows the affection in her voice because he's used the same words about Bucky.

That's my best friend. That one is mine.

It's possessive and proud in a way that only love is.

"_Have you seen this man_?" Steve asks her when he pulls out the picture of Bucky. It takes a few seconds to shift her focus from the game.

She doesn't give the picture more than a passing glance before saying,"_Yes. Last week. He came by when I was trying to help Esperanza block goals_."

Steve feels his mouth go dry and his heart bulges. For a while he can't even comprehend the words. He worries he translated wrong and asks her again. Irritated now, the girl insists that yes, she saw him.

"_He was really creepy. Kept watching us. He looked like he was on drugs or something. Esperanza didn't like him so I told him to get lost._"

Steve feels like a kid again, unable to catch his breath. Bucky had been here. He's been right here watching kids playing a game. He'd been right here while Steve was in Arizona, kicking himself for writing on a stupid postcard.

"_Which way did he go_?"

Something in the desperation of his voice frightens the girl. She hugs the sketchpad close and points south. Steve stands and Sam follows.

"Rodgers, give me the keys."

Steve doesn't say anything and Sam groans as he hurries after him.

"Rodgers, you can't drive right now."

"I've driven a motorcycle through an exploding minefield. I think I can handle this."

"Think you can handle getting arrested for reckless driving because I don't think that's something we can afford right now."

Livid, Steve bounds on him. He jabs an angry finger at Sam and growls out, "He's out here. Right now."

"I know." Sam keeps his tone even and stares Steve down like he's matching a snorting bull. "I know that but you can't go crazy because of that. You're Captain America, not Iron Man."

Steve's fights tighten and he wants to deck the man but he forces himself to calm. Despite all the arguing, Steve hasn't had such a close friend and comrade since Bucky fell. Sam's right and Steve hates it (and himself a little). They start walking again.

Steve digs through his pocket for his keys. He can feel the picture of Bucky and his hands don't feel like they'll work much longer, he's so jittery. Sam slugs his arm and they get into the truck. Steve's hands keep tapping his knees. He didn't find a postcard today but he knows he would have written something about baseball.

He watches the dark landscape flash by but he's thinking of hot summer days and where Bucky might be right now. He pictures Bucky wandering the desert without any means of transportation, alone in the dark like he'd been for years. He thinks of how cold the dry air is. He thinks of ice biting at Bucky's skin, unconscious in a ravine. No, alive and screaming for Steve as Hydra dig him out of the snow. Steve thought he was dead. Steve thought he was dead and Bucky had been abandoned.

How long was it before they took his memories? Had it been immediately or a last resort? Steve shifts in his seat and focuses on his hands. As soon as they found Bucky, he would make sure the man never went cold again.


	4. Flight

We're really making progress here, folks. We've got a 10-chapter story outline, a beta reader, and pretty soon we'll be changing gears drastically in the fic. This is an important one right here. Thanks for the continued support and enjoy!

* * *

Flight

"Okay, I've got to ask. Were you and Bucky together before you supped-up or after?"

The question catches Steve so off guard he pauses in his musings, writing on a postcard that's of an archway in the city of Zapopan. The arch was so reminiscent European ones that Steve had been caught in a memory that was mostly mist now, he and the Howling Commandos laughing under the arch about nothing but the fact they were still alive.

"Buck and I grew up together," Steve says, straightening in his seat. They're a few states away from Mexico City but Steve doesn't think he'll be there. Over the past few days Tony's been giving them updates. All of North and South America is set to record Bucky. And no, it isn't legal. With SHIELD out of commission, Steve isn't sure there's anyone to harass Tony about it.

They've had more luck with cities in the outskirts, places that aren't tech heavy. A little speck of an Indian town had several children who had seen the Winter Soldier. The adults were wary of the two at first but after Sam played a round of soccer with the kids, whatever hesitations they had were gone. Almost no one spoke Spanish but when Steve showed the picture of Bucky, the kid's eyes lit up. One of few words they were able to translate was "south"

They had no idea what Bucky was traveling by that kept him so far ahead of them but at least Steve's intuition was right.

"Yeah, but when did you get together?" Sam asks again and Steve's brows nit in the middle of his forehead.

"Oh, when I was six, maybe seven."

Sam gapes. Then he laughs and shakes his head. Steve isn't sure what that's supposed to mean. He'd been rather clear on the age they'd been when they became friends. "Wow. Damn Rodgers, that's cute. When I was that age I wanted to marry Bethany Carmichael across the street but I never even talked to her after about two months. You were with Bucky at six years old and stayed together? How is that even possible? That's adorable."

Steve is used to feeling dense in the modern world but he thought he'd made enough progress that he wouldn't be this baffled by a conversation. He supposes life-long friends were more common in the past. Without social media eating everyone's time, people in his original era were able to focus on the people around them. That was the theory, anyway.

"Must've been hard growing up," Sam says on a somber note. "Being in love but not able to marry. Then to lose him like that."

"Wait, what?" Steve gets it. Like a light-bulb turning on and bursting from a power surge, her gets it. "I'm not in love with Bucky. We were never in love."

Sam shoots him a look that's baffled at first then turns into something Steve's seen in Tony. It's a warning that they're about to talk about something Steve would rather not.

"It's okay. You don't have to pretend with me or feel weird. If you're not out that's cool. I can understand you hesitation. Lot of military guys get like that."

"There's nothing to hide," Steve says in exasperation. "Bucky's my best friend. Besides, Peggy –"

"She's not a beard? Oh – oh was that a three way? Because I have to say that's pretty ho– "

"No! Nothing like that happened!" Steve insists, ears burning like sunburn.

Sam keeps glancing between him and the road and after a few minutes, says, "You're not kidding. Nothing happened?"

"Nothing like you're suggesting, no. Bucky and I are friends. Peggy was . . . we kissed. That was it. I liked her, I really did, but I was focused on stopping Hydra."

Now and again another member of the Commandos would find a pretty lady and take a night. Bucky would grin at him and Steve would laugh and pretend he didn't know what was happening. He was happy his men could find ways to live their lives, even when the world was coming to an end around them. Steve never allowed himself the same luxury.

"No one? In all that time you just kissed a girl right before going on a suicide run?"

Steve shrugs. "Like I said, I was there to save people, not have sex."

Sam shakes his head and focuses on the road. "Wow. Okay. I'm sorry. I thought . . . Guess it doesn't matter."

While being in the truck had never been comfortable, it'd never felt so cramped and awkward before. Steve goes back to his postcard but the words, "_This one time in Germany you convinced Dugan to lick a pole in the snow and he got his tongue stuck_" look even worse than when Steve had written them. Sighing, he puts the card away.

"So, all this time you thought – what – that Bucky was some long lost flame?"

Sam's guilty half-grin is all the answer he needs. "To be honest, the thought of reuniting Captain America with his lover was an opportunity I couldn't pass up." Steve hangs his head. "Sorry."

"No, No I appreciate it. Without your help I'd probably be back in Boston. Not to mention I've enjoyed your company."

The relief in Sam's smile is tangible. His grip on the steering wheel changes and Sam's focus on the road isn't desperate like it was earlier. Steve leans back and tries to think of something better to say on another postcard.

. . .

On the next postcard he can't think of anything to say at all. It's raining and they're in a forest that could have been in Germany if not for how hot the air is. They've stopped for a rest and to change drivers. Sam's in the rain, letting the light shower that's more mist than anything wash over him. Steve takes a bite of his sandwich and a quick glug of water. It's nice here; quiet amongst the pine and oak trees. The guide book he bought says this is where Monarch Butterflies migrate by the millions. There's a picture of the tiny things clinging to pine-needles but looking around the forest in person, he wishes desperately that he could see it.

This is Steve's last chance to write to Bucky for the next several hours. His mind buzzes with the need to tell Bucky everything. He's so caught in it he can't say more than a few words to Sam and he's not looking forward to the other man sleeping through most of this shift. When they change drivers the other sleeps. They haven't stopped moving for days so they get sleep where they can.

Steve stares down at the postcard in his hands. It's of this forest but it's covered in orange and black butterflies. Even under the cover of the canopy around him, the card's damp. He shouldn't keep it out much longer but he needs to do _something_.

"Ready to go?" Sam asks a while later when the rain starts to pick up. He's toweling off under the canopy Steve's at and digs through his pack for a change of clothes.

"Yeah." Steve hurries to put the card away but Sam catches a glimpse of it.

"Hey, wow, can I see that?" He's just pulled a shirt on and is reaching for Steve's card. Steve panics, body going ridged like he's in bootcamp again. Seeing his hesitation, Sam starts to pull back but Steve all but throws the card at him.

Anxious and trying to ease Steve's nerves with a smile, Sam turns over the card and looks at it.

"That's beautiful."

It's a picture of Bucky. Well. . . not exactly Bucky but the Winter Soldier. Steve couldn't find his words so he drew. At first he tried Bucky but he couldn't remember his face. Steve doesn't know how that's possible when Bucky is (was) bight as sunlight but all he could think of was the Winter Soldier in this rain, butterflies clinging to his long hair like they would to the pine trees.

His mask is off, head tilted up to catch as much rain as possible – like Sam was a bit ago. His palms are raised in rapture; lips open like he's singing. Butterflies are all around him. Steve imagines it in color, thick oils that give it texture and depth – or maybe water colors that are light and ethereal like he imagines it.

He blushes as Sam stares at the picture. He'll have trouble convincing the man that Bucky's 'just his best friend' now.

"This is really beautiful," Sam says again. He holds onto it a while longer like it's something rare and precious before handing it back to Steve. Steve can't meet his eyes and puts the postcard with the others. He's built quite the collection now.

"Have you been drawing on all of those? You've got to have twenty by now."

"Twenty seven," Steve chokes out. And he thought it was hard to talk earlier. "And no. This is the first one I've. . yeah."

"So you write on the others?" Sam is entirely too curious and Steve recognizes his tone. It's the one he gets when he helps his wounded soldiers, caring and tender and too empathetic. It makes Steve want to curl up and tell him everything, vent for a while because Sam would never hold anything against him. No one with such a gentle voice could do that.

Steve chews on the inside of his cheek and heads for the car.

. . .

He picks up a blank journal outside of a church on Sunday morning. It's almost noon. It's still bright even though the sun is behind a layer of clouds and Steve stares down at the journal as church-goers exit the tea-cup sized chapel in their Sunday finest. It's not long after Easter so the people are still dressing nice for the sake of it. In another two weeks the Creasters (Christmas-Easter-time visitors) will break off and the main church will start to wear understated clothes. For now they're shiny and colorful as candies, women using fans in floral print and the men in shoes so shiny you could see the offering plate pass by in their reflection.

The journal is small (like the chapel behind him) and can fit easily in his pocket. When he tries it out, the shopkeeper snaps her cane at him and Steve hastens to explain himself. He can't get more than a few words out before the cane comes for him so he pays her. He's aware it's more money than the journal is priced at but he doesn't care as he enters the chapel.

It's muggy inside. There isn't any air-conditioning and although most of the people have left the air is stagnant. At least outside there was a breeze.

"_Back so soon_?" the pastor says with a smile that's fresh and kind. The sermon today was about love – as most church sermons are at their root point. Steve thinks of a sermon back in New York, Bucky pretending to pay attention as he stole a few minutes sleeping. Steve drew during the sermons, though that was discouraged. It was impolite. It was disgraceful. Almost everyone sneered at him while he drew during church but at the end of the sermon the pastor always came down into the pews to look at Steve's drawings.

"You have a gift," he'd say. The pastor spent a longer time staring at his drawing than anyone but Bucky did. Steve chewed on the side of his cheek to keep from smiling too much. "You have a great gift, Steven. Nurture it. God has a great plan for you and I for one can't wait to see its fruition."

Steve could feel Bucky's eyes rolling behind him. Bucky didn't have much faith in God – or anything beyond Steve, really. So Steve believed for both of them.

Steve still believes for both of them, believes that he will find Bucky and that this will make a difference.

"_I have a request, Pastor_," Steve tells the man in front of him. The Pastor nods and gestures Steve to walk with him to a space where they won't be overheard. A full two feet higher than the Pastor and Steve still feels like that scrawny kid from Brooklyn. He hasn't had much time to go to church, less on this journey. Part of him feels guilty over that but he pushes it aside. God understands what he has to do right now.

The Pastor stands at the ready, patient and calm as he waits. Steve was hesitant coming here at first. Sam didn't have an interest in it and Steve worried that he might be unwelcome. The city they are in is small and he's caught several slurs being hushed as he walked by already. But here, in this chapel, Steve feels safe. There's been a few unkindly stares but the majority of the crowd took the sermon to heart.

"_I'm looking for a friend. He's . . .he's a good man but he's confused_." The Pastor nods and Steve's throat feels dry as the man's jokes during the sermon. "_He feels alone now. I'm doing everything I can to reach him but_ –"

It's something he and Sam have never talked about. What do they do if they can't find him? What happens if Bucky disappears? Or dies? What if he's murdered by Hydra? What if it's a back alley fight with nothing to do with terrorism or something medical like a burst appendix or something simple like the flue? What happens to Steve if the line slips through his fingers at the end.

What if they find Bucky and he never gets his memories back?

The Pastor grabs Steve's arm when he can't say anything else and drags him down so they're forehead to forehead. Steve's instincts are screaming at him to move away from the attack but he squashes that - because it's just a pastor for heaven's sake – and focuses to the man's words, quiet and fervent as he prays.

"_Father, guide us by your Spirit, let us know Your presence, this man who wanders from You especially. Let him know You. We are never alone. Stay his sorrow and anxiety. Let this man," _he squeezes Steve's shoulder and he feels lightheaded_, "let him be guided by You. Help him know what to say, what to do. But most of all, Father, let him know peace in your presence and give to You the things that he cannot control_."

Steve feels sick. He doesn't know if it's dread or hope turning in his stomach but Steve can't breathe anymore and the Pastor's hands are stuck on him like they're metal sinking into his shoulder.

"_Free will is Your blessing and curse. Encourage this man through his life to come to You but let it be of his own choice_."

The Pastor finishes the prayer and Steve darts away as soon as he can. His thanks aren't much more than a blurb of sound but the Pastor offers a goodbye anyway. Steve holds the journal in his hands and need to write. He misses Bucky. He misses Bucky so desperately and he's terrified.

. . .

The call comes in Monday morning. He and Sam are jogging. They haven't had much of a chance to with all the travel and the first few miles feel awful. Steve gets into his stride then Sam and they run together (well as together as they can get – Steve's almost a block ahead of him). It's early. The sun isn't up yet but it's light enough to see the drab sky cloaked in gray clouds. Everything is on the edge of darkness, though the humidity is still ever present.

When his phone goes off Steve doesn't think much of it. He gets calls periodically from Black Widow, Iron Man, and sometimes even Bruce Banner. Bruce, more than Natasha even, knows how to travel without being seen. He knows how to hide in plain sight and the man's been through most of Central and South America on his run. It's the closest he'll get to knowing what Winter Soldier might be planning.

"Steve, I found him," Tony shouts over the phone. Steve almost trips. His breath catches and he falls into a coughing fit. Tony's a nonstop steam of words – "He's in Honduras! Steve, he's in a little town in Honduras called – wait can you hear me? Steve?"

Steve's gasping. He's on his knees, forehead flat against the damp earth and he's not crying but there's a prickling in his eyes that might be something. He holds it, cradles the phone, and fights for air as he hears Sam sprinting up to him.

"How soon can you fly us there?"


End file.
